Adequate Yearly Progress

by Roxanna Elden

  The thought partners in the room nodded.

  Kaytee had the feeling she was losing a contest. A teacher who did not articulate high expectations would be the same type of teacher who did not plan relevant lessons because she was making assumptions about students’ home cultures. She looked longingly at the candy bowl in the middle of her table.

  “As a person of color myself,” said Amantha-am-I-pronouncing-that-right, “I’ve found that sharing my firsthand experience with educational inequities has helped me invest students in my high expectations of them.”

  The contest ended abruptly. The non–person of color thought partners in the room shared a shudder of collective defeat.

  “Okay, Kaytee!” said the facilitator. “It’s your turn again. Do you have anything you’d like to add?”

  Did she? Yes, she did! With a surge of gratitude, she realized she hadn’t told them about the roach. “Actually, I forgot to mention: This all started because there was a roach in my classroom. I had this great lesson planned, but then this giant cockroach walked in.” She demonstrated its size with her hands. Everyone had to agree that this could disrupt even the culturally relevant classroom of a non–assumption making teacher.

  But the interest of the thought partners had drifted to their own culturally relevant teaching practice.

  “We made up a multiplication rap,” offered the praying mantis–elbowed girl.

  “We do ‘fiesta fuego firecracker cheers’ when someone gets an answer right,” said a brunette girl next to Katie-with-an-I-E. She pronounced the Spanish words with a flourish that confirmed she was probably Latina and thus also a person of color who could share firsthand accounts of educational inequities.

  “Oooo-kaaaay!” The facilitator sounded nervous, as if she’d just realized the group might really think she was only there to facilitate, not to be the boss or expert. “It looks like we’re moving on to the suggestion part of our co-investigation, so I’d like to share out a story that might be helpful. Last year, when I was still teaching, a bee flew into the classroom, and the kids started to get off task. I knew we were wasting learning time, and my students could not afford to waste one minute that could be used to prepare them for college. So… I killed the bee and ate it!”

  The room grew silent.

  “I wanted to send the message that we do not let anything get in the way of student achievement,” explained the facilitator. Her high mouth tightened into a smile.

  Finally, Jordan said, “I think that deserves a roof raise!”

  “Woo-hoo!”

  “I’m sorry.” Kaytee was confused. “Are you saying I should have…?” She trailed off, gagging at the thought of the roach’s spiky legs against her tongue.

  “Obviously, she isn’t saying you should have eaten the roach,” said Amantha-am-I-pronouncing-that-right. “It’s a metaphor.”

  “Right,” said Jordan. “For not making assumptions about students’ home cultures.”

  “And making sure your lessons are culturally relevant,” added Katie-with-an-I-E.

  “And setting high expectations,” added the guy in the plaid shirt.

  “That’s right!” said the facilitator, offering another open-eyed smile. “But most of all, it’s about making sure you don’t let anything get in the way of your students’ success. Right, everyone?”

  “Wooooo-hoooooo!”

  “In fact, before we break for lunch, I wanted to share out one more piece of inspiration. This is a passage from my absolute favorite blogger on the TeachCorps blog site: the Mystery History Teacher!”

  Kaytee swallowed hard.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Jordan. “I love that blog. I sooo relate to it.”

  “ ‘I was told today, in a whole bunch of different ways, that I should quit taking my students’ failure so personally.’ ”

  Kaytee looked to see if anyone was looking at her. No one was. They were all just smiling, nodding with familiarity as they listened to her anonymous words. She tried not to listen, but chips of meaning broke off and lodged themselves in her ears. Today I tried to lead by example… No, no, no, thought Kaytee. My students learn democracy by practicing democracy… Please make it stop, she pleaded internally. Way too many classrooms in my school that are dictatorships… Ms. Grady! She’d written that about Ms. Grady!

  The images cascaded through Kaytee’s thoughts: Ms. Grady’s harsh words on the first day of school. The fierce scar. The face at her door on the day of the fight.

  The can of Raid rolling across the bloody floor.

  Kaytee’s heart pounded in her ears, blocking out the rest of the passage until a final volley of woo-hoos told her the facilitator had finished.

  The thought partners were gathering their things for lunch now. The praying mantis–elbowed girl performed her multiplication rap for the brunette who was probably Latina. Jordan and Amantha-am-I-pronouncing-that-right announced they were skipping lunch, then began grading papers with an efficiency that seemed almost hostile.

  Kaytee reached out and grabbed a piece of candy from the bowl.

  SELECTION

  AFTER ALL THE lectures from teachers, the hand waving of politicians, the cautionary movies, and other warnings about how no one ever makes it in football, an interesting thing sometimes happens.

  Every now and then, someone makes it in football.

  More specifically: Janoris Swan, former star of the Brae Hill Valley Killer Armadillos, was now a highly paid NFL running back, all the more famous for playing on the team in his hometown. On the first Wednesday of each February, at his former coach’s request, Janoris came back to the school for National Athletic Signing Day. There, he shared the story of how he had made it—not just into college but all the way to the NFL and, this year, all the way to the Super Bowl. And this year’s Super Bowl, just days away, would be played here, in the exact city where all those gloomy folks had once warned him no one ever made it in football. This was the story ESPN used in their profiles of Janoris and the story Coach Ray had expected when he’d handed his former player the microphone.

  But Janoris was going off script.

  “I didn’t do much work in high school,” he told the gathering of students and families. “In college, neither. Matter of fact, tell you the truth, I barely went to class. But I’ll tell y’all one thing: college women do love football players.”

  Coach Ray’s head snapped toward Janoris. What the fuck? Didn’t the NFL have media trainers who taught players not to say dumb shit in front of a microphone? Plus, Janoris had to know that if another player messed up, the whole football program was in danger—which meant he should have known better than to say something like this in front of O’Neal Rigby. Rigby had miraculously kept his grades up and made it through his final season without getting in trouble. But senioritis for athletes only got worse after signing day.

  Coach Ray waited for the look to land, or for Janoris’s own common sense to kick in and get him back on topic. But maybe Janoris had forgotten. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe, as his muscles and celebrity and bank account grew, his high school coach shrank in the rearview mirror.

  “In fact,” Janoris continued, “my whole time in college, I don’t think I ever…” Slept alone was the next phrase. Janoris had told Coach Ray this story about a million times, and it was clear he was going to finish it if nobody stopped him. To make matters worse, Daren Grant was in the gym. He’d arrived just before the ceremony to hand Coach Ray his mandatory Whatever It Takes to Win! T-shirt and was still hanging around, taking notes, pretending he wasn’t getting a contact high from being around a real NFL player.

  Coach Ray lunged toward Janoris and grabbed the microphone. “Ha-ha! What a joker!” He clapped Janoris’s wide shoulder in a way that was meant to look friendly but would still serve as a warning. “Janoris, why don’t you say something inspiring and educational to our young players and their families today?”

  “Sorry, Coach. I just get nervous and start talking.” It wasn’t clear i
f Janoris meant this, but he switched tracks. “Okay, y’all. Being serious now: one thing Coach Ray used to tell us is that your game face is not just for the game, and it’s not just for your face. We can’t just show up and look like we want to win.”

  That inner game face You can’t just look like you want to win. As Janoris said these lines, it wasn’t just the words that sounded familiar. Coach Ray recognized the Huntsville cadence that rolled through the words when he said them to players, year after year, on busses and in locker rooms. Janoris Swan, famous NFL player, could still recite the pep talk as clearly as if he’d listened to it this week. And maybe he had. Maybe players saved Coach Ray’s words in their memories to be pulled out as needed, just as he had saved the words of his own coaches.

  “We can’t just decide we want to win when we get off the bus,” Janoris continued. “We gotta want to win when we wake up. We gotta want to win while we’re brushing our teeth. We gotta want it while we’re—”

  “Watch it, son.”

  “Sorry, Coach. I’m just trying to say it’s your inner game face that counts. And even now, no matter what I’m trying to do, whether it’s on or off the field, I think about putting on that inner game face. So keep that inner game face, y’all. No matter what you doing.”

  The families in the gym whooped and hollered. Coach Ray understood their excitement. Few things inspired him as much as seeing kids sign those scholarship papers. These were the few, the tough, the hardworking and uninjured, the lucky starfish plucked from the beach by an invisible hand and tossed back into the sea.

  Now, one by one, the players came up and took the microphone. Each made a short speech or told jokes they’d practiced for the occasion. Then, in a moment of drama, they reached inside the lectern to pull out the hats representing their chosen schools. They placed the hats on their heads and signed the letters of intent that would unlock their athletic scholarships. Cheerleaders waved pom-poms. Mothers and grandmothers burst into tears. Everyone posed for pictures.

  O’Neal Rigby went last. Aside from Janoris Swan, Rigby was the star of the event. “Nothing matters but that inner game face,” said Rigby, echoing Janoris. Then, with his family standing behind him, he reached into the lectern, pulled out the hat of a Division I school, and placed it on his head. The crowd in the gym screamed, previewing the years of screaming fans that might line the stands of Rigby’s future.

  Just don’t make any mistakes, nagged a voice in the back of Coach Ray’s mind, but he used his own inner game face to squash it into silence.

  “I want to just say one more thing.” Janoris Swan had at some point made his way behind the lectern again. “It’s about my coach.”

  The room quieted as all eyes swooped toward his massive frame.

  “Coach Ray, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be where I am today. That’s why I wanted to make sure you could be in the stands for my biggest game yet.” He reached into his pocket and held up a small rectangle of glossy cardboard.

  Coach Ray stared in disbelief. Even from across the room, he knew what a Super Bowl ticket looked like.

  “Coach, you were like a father to me.” Janoris’s voice wavered. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I thought this would be a good way to say thank you.”

  Then he stepped from behind the lectern, crossed the gym, and pressed the cold, crisp rectangle into Coach Ray’s hand. It felt electric, as if the camera flashes were sparks coming directly from the ticket itself.

  “Janoris?” It was Daren Grant. He had crept up behind them and was now ruining the moment, in true Daren Grant style. “Do you think you could also remind everyone that doing whatever it takes to win doesn’t just mean—”

  “ ’Scuse me, chief.” Janoris cut him off. “I’m trying to talk to my coach.”

  Coach Ray wanted to laugh. Well, more accurately, he wanted to yell into Daren Grant’s face, That’s right—I’m Coach Ray, bitch! I invented doing what it takes to win! But instead, both he and Janoris Swan acted as if Grant were invisible. That was nice, too.

  “Sorry I could only get one of these,” said Janoris, “but if you want tickets to games during the regular season, I could get you a few. All you got to do is let me know.”

  Just when the moment seemed like it could not get any better, Janoris stepped away, and Coach Ray looked at the ticket in his hand.

  Mid-deck. Front row. Fifty-yard line.

  Suddenly, like so many of the family members in the gym that day, Coach Ray found himself wiping away tears.

  PLANNING

  “SO, YOU KNOW who Janoris Swan is, right?” Lena stood, dressed in nothing but Nex’s white tank top from the night before, ironing her Whatever It Takes to Win! T-shirt.

  Nex stepped out of her bathroom, a towel around his waist. Flecks of water clung to his abdominal muscles. He looked at her as if unsure whether she was joking. “Everybody know who Janoris Swan is.”

  “Yeah… no, of course.” Lena wished she hadn’t started with the question. Of course everybody knew who Janoris Swan was. And everyone in Texas, obviously, knew the Texan who played for the most famous team in Texas. Which was about to be in the Super Bowl. But she had to get through this part of the conversation so she could get to the part she’d been practicing. “I was just gonna tell you a story about him. He went to the Hill—the school where I work? And our football coach was his coach in high school.”

  “For real?” Now Nex sounded impressed. He unwrapped the towel, draping it around his neck as he stepped into his boxer shorts.

  “Yeah, so on Wednesday, he came to our school and gave the coach a front-row ticket to the Super Bowl.” Or was front row only for basketball? Lena became self-conscious again.

  “Shit.” Nex pulled on his pants. “I need to coach me some high school football.”

  “Yeah, I know, right?” Lena waited for him to say more. The conversation, in her mental rehearsals, had a natural progression: she would tell Nex about Janoris Swan giving the ticket to Coach Ray, which would lead to the topic of the Super Bowl and Super Bowl parties, which would remind Nex to invite her to his cousin’s party. He’d mentioned the party in passing a few weeks earlier, and she’d been determined to recoup the opportunity she’d missed over the holidays.

  But none of these transitions occurred. Instead, Nex silently retrieved a fresh pair of socks from his bag. The night before, they’d wasted no time removing their clothes as soon as he’d walked in. Now, they seemed locked in the reverse scenario, and she realized with sinking dismay that he was halfway dressed—halfway gone. She’d have to move the conversation forward herself.

  “So, yeah, I was thinking I wanted to watch the game—the Super Bowl—somewhere good. Since a player from the Hill is going to be in it, you know?”

  “Well, I don’t think you gotta worry.” Nex pumped some of Lena’s body lotion into his hands, smoothing it over the muscles of his chest and arms. “They playing it everywhere.”

  “I was just thinking more of a party-type thing, you know? I don’t really want to watch the game at a bar.”

  “Hey, you know where my shoes went?”

  She gave herself a mental shove. “How about you? Where you gonna watch it?”

  “Probably over by my cousin’s house.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Nex tugged his shirt over his head. The sleeves bulged around his powerful shoulders.

  Breyonna’s happy-hour admonishment came back to Lena like an echo. Look—y’all can give it up on credit if you want to…

  But that was ridiculous. She’d never expected anything from Nex. And, really, it wasn’t like she had given him anything. They were both just having fun. If anything, it was Nex who’d sounded disappointed that she couldn’t come to his family’s house for the holidays. It was he who’d texted love ya. It was he who had said, on their first date—

  “I thought you said you could take me anywhere.” Regret washed over her immediately. She hadn’t planned to speak the thought aloud.
Now she wished she could go back in time and revise her words, edit them until they were perfect, memorize them like a poem.

  Nex gave her a long look that was difficult to interpret. Was he surprised she still remembered what he’d said? Or worse—did he not remember saying it?

  Suddenly, she had to ask. “Is this whole thing…” She gestured back and forth between them. She couldn’t bring herself to say relationship, but she couldn’t say the term giving it up, either. “Is this like I’m opening some… line of credit for you that you’re never going to pay back?”

  Nex’s eyes narrowed. “You saying you think I got bad credit?”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” It was all coming out wrong. Now she sounded like she’d bought into the stereotype that black men had bad credit, and she hadn’t been trying to say that at all.

  “Have I ever asked you for money?” He looked angrier than she’d ever seen him. “Have I ever asked you for anything?”

  “No—I just wanted…” She stopped, unsure how to fill in the blank.

  But Nex had already found his shoes and put them on.

  “Never mind,” said Lena. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “Cool.” He stepped out into the sunrise, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  The copy machine had been broken all week. Even now, it was only working in the loosest sense of the term. Every fifteen copies or so, it shook, then sputtered to a halt and displayed an error message, leaving the teacher whose documents were inside to open and slam a series of plastic doors while apologizing to the colleagues waiting in line.

  “It starts in middle school.” Mrs. Friedman-Katz reached into the copier and pulled a crumpled paper from its depths. The machine started again with a promising whir. “We have kids here who had no business passing eighth grade in the first place.”

  Lena mentally calculated her wait time. Mrs. Friedman-Katz was, as always, accompanied by Mrs. Reynolds-Washington. Behind them was Daren Grant, holding a thin folder marked Confidential. He was the only one among them not wearing the mandatory Whatever It Takes to Win! T-shirt. His shirt and tie served as further reminders that he, Daren Grant, was there to make sure students were learning and was not just some teacher.